Unfriended

When I was kicked out of my high school friend group, all I could do was listen to “Death by a Thousand Cuts” by Taylor Swift. This song felt like a perfect mantra for the devastating breakup with my friends because I couldn’t understand what I did wrong. I spent weeks trying to figure out what I could’ve done differently to salvage our friendship, but eventually I just had to accept that I had lost some of my closest friends. 

In high school I was labeled the “token straight friend” because all my friends had come out as part of the LGBTQ community. It was a joke, a quirky little title that allowed me to be a part of the group without actually being a part of it. I didn’t mind the title. I tended to embrace it, laughing when my friends would refer to me as such. 

I never understood the need for a label, especially one defining one's sexuality. I had never been in a relationship and neither had most of my friends. Still, they would message frequently about the panic surrounding their identity. I didn’t mind too much, as I was there to be supportive and provide comfort for them as they navigated that aspect of themselves. For me, their sexuality was just a tiny part of who they were, not defining their personality or what made me value them. 

One of my friends, Kim, obsessed over figuring out which label defined them. Since I was a freshman in college at the time, I wasn’t seeing Kim as much. Despite this, they still sent me video messages over snap chat every single day panicking about their sexual identity. Some days Kim would label themselves bisexual, then the next their label would be pansexual. This confusion was furthered as Kim had recently labeled themselves nonbinary, which made them question if they could be a lesbian since they no longer identified as a woman.  I listened to Kim as they expressed their feelings and tried to lend them advice where I could, though I ultimately reminded them that this was not my decision to make. 

Different terms relating to the queer community flooded my mind every single day and I tried not to think too much about them. After all, I had already decided I didn’t care about labels. 

But Kim was different from me. They wanted to know- needed to know. And since it consumed their mind, I allowed them to talk about it with me. It was my philosophy that people shouldn’t have to struggle alone. We had been best friends since seventh grade and I needed Kim to know that I cared about them. 

For weeks this went on until it became a cloud over my head and sent my brain into a frenzy of thoughts. Did I need a label? Everyone in my friend group had a label. They were all a part of the LGBTQ community and I was the outsider. 

After a little bit of research, I latched onto demisexuality as my entrance into the queer community my friends felt so attached to. I could finally make jokes with them and not feel like an outsider within my own friend group. I was ecstatic to share this information with everyone. 

I messaged the group chat that was set up with my high school friends. “Hey, I think I might be demisexual. I read the definition and honestly thought this was a normal occurrence, but apparently, it’s not?” 

My friends were happy for me, congratulating and affirming my new label. 

Then Kim messaged, “Congrats! I’ll miss my token straight friend, but I’m super happy for you. :)” 

That comment confused me. After years of being the token straight friend, I didn’t want that label to go. We had made jokes around it and it felt like I was releasing a part of myself into the atmosphere that I would never get back. After all, I was still straight wasn’t I? As far as I knew I only liked the opposite sex. 

“You can still call me your token straight friend, lol, I’m still straight,” I messaged back.

“You can’t be straight and a part of the community,” Kim responded.

Once again, I felt like an outsider. Was I never going to fit into this group? From then on, the chat abrupted with different opinions on this matter. Some of my friends sided with me, while others said Kim was correct. Finally, I just messaged the real issue. 

“I just feel like an outsider in this group. Like, I know y'all are technically the minority but within this friend group, I feel like it’s me. I know this doesn’t really make sense and I feel kind of stupid saying it but I just thought I’d share how I feel so ya’ll kind of understand where I’m coming from.”

Kim abrupted in a flurry of angry messages telling me how I would never understand and that I was insulting the entire community. After a few messages back and forth of me trying to explain myself better and Kim getting angry, Kim removed themselves from the chat. 

I felt defeated. Did I just lose my best friend over this? Maybe I was being unsympathetic toward the people in the community. This was a huge part of their identity. They spent so many hours doing research to figure out what label best suited them. Maybe I would just never understand them. 

After some time thinking about it, I decided to drop the label. I really didn’t care enough about it to lose my best friend. 

After a few days of silence from Kim, I decided to send them a video message on snap chat saying hi. I couldn’t help myself. It became a habit to talk to them every single day so the last few days felt like years. Kim responded pretty quickly but it was clear they were still upset with me. I told them I dropped the label and that I just didn’t understand the definitions behind everything. Kim couldn’t accept my apology. 

Back and forth we went, sending video message after video message. I tried to hold in my tears as Kim sent me a video telling me that I didn’t give them enough time to think about the situation. My video insisted that a weekend was long enough for me and I admitted that I missed talking to them. I just wanted to get past this argument and get my best friend back. 

Kim’s voice was stern as they told me how betrayed they felt. I couldn’t help defending myself and my confusion. I started to cry. I reminded Kim about all the times we had together. That I listened to them whenever they were confused about their identity. They knew me. They knew how much I cared about them and that I didn’t mean any harm by my words. We had been friends since middle school- wasn’t that enough time to know my intentions were not to harm anyone? I tried to remain calm as I talked but tears streamed down my face. 

Kim’s cheeks remained clear as they told me in a calm, harsh tone that they were done being my friend. 

My phone slid from my hand. 

I picked it up to make another video pleading with them to not let me go then erased it and threw my phone across the room. It was no use. I knew it was no use because of the way their eyes expressed a coldness I had seen many times before. Kim was stubborn and when someone did them wrong, they didn’t hesitate to cut them off. They were done. 

I threw myself on my dorm floor and started to sob, heaving and choking. I felt betrayed by this person I thought would be my friend no matter what happened. I felt lost and confused– like I was the bad guy. 

From there I lost contact with everyone else in my friend group. When I reached out to one of them, they never responded. When I reached out to another, they didn’t seem to care, and when I stopped messaging altogether they never did anything to check in on me. It seemed nobody thought I was worth their time anymore. 

In the weeks following, I replayed these events over and over again. I missed my friends and all the great memories we had together. I couldn’t understand how someone could give up on me so quickly. I couldn’t help but wonder if they cared more about their sexual identity than they did their friendship with me. 

In the process of coming to terms with all of this, I decided to be done with labels for good. I was content with who I was without one and if it led to losing people I loved, I didn’t think it was worth it. I was just me. I loved Taylor Swift, was loyal to a fault, enjoyed reading and writing, and someday wanted to adopt kids and publish a novel. None of the terms Kim was concerned about defined me and I didn’t want them to.